The Deception Maneuver
by sky.guinalie
Summary: "He was addicted, and his source was running out. He needed something new, and it shoved itself in his face. There was no way he could have turned it down, so he didn't." John's military years are shrouded in mystery because most people were too polite to ask him anything. But if anyone did ask, they would uncover things about the little doctor that really change the game. Review!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- For some time, I've had an AU in which John is… different. Well, you know, he still loves Sherlock, but he's something else, something… sadistic. Yeah, sadistic, and definitely BAMF. Enjoy!**

John Watson was really beginning to wonder if everything was worth it. All that he'd done seemed to be making things even worse. Then he thought of Sherlock. Yes, it was worth it. And what was about to happen pained him so much, but it couldn't be avoided. But he was addicted, and his source was running out. He needed something new, and it shoved itself in his face. There was no way he could have turned it down, so he didn't. And here he was. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Yes," replied the consulting detective. "With sugar."

"Okay," John replied, and set the kettle up. "It'll be ready soon." He walked over to the couch, where his flat mate was thinking. "What are you working on?"

Sherlock sat up, opening his crystal blue eyes. "Something boring Lestrade gave me. Life was just so dull and I needed something to keep me from eating three days in a row."

"Oh." John chuckled. "You really should eat more, you know."

"Yes, you constantly remind me of that fact," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes slightly. "But I hate eating. It's boring."

John smiled warmly. "Fine. Well, tea's ready. At least you drink." He went over and fixed up two cups of tea, bringing them over to the living room. "Do you want to see something?"

"What?"

"A film? Telly?" John suggested, sipping his tea. "I know you hate them, that was stupid of me to-"

"No, I don't mind," Sherlock said, tucking his feet up on the couch. "I'll see whatever you're seeing."

John looked confused. "Are you apologizing for something?"

Sherlock shook his head and drank some tea.

"Okay," John said. "Good." He put on some random show.

Despite Sherlock's regular inclination to insult and berate John about watching telly, he found this session somewhat comforting and calm. He wondered if he was going soft, and laughed at the very idea.

John looked over, smiled, and came to sit on the couch with Sherlock. "Listen, Sherlock."

"What?" replied the consulting detective, sitting up.

"I'm sorry, alright?" John looked upset, but in a cold, detached sort of way. "I really am. Don't blame me."

"What are you talking about, John?" asked Sherlock, snapping out of his comfort mode and scanning his flat mate's face for signs. He found none, and he felt woozy all of a sudden. "What's going on?"

"Remember when you deduced that I was addicted to adrenaline?" John asked.

"Hm," Sherlock said, half in consent and half in confusion and distress as his brain continued to turn itself off.

John nodded. "You were right, of course. And you, of all people, know how addictions work. When you keep up a habit, eventually the amount you're getting isn't enough. You know that, don't you, Sherlock?"

"John, whadidja do?" Sherlock was horrified to find his words slurring together. Then it hit him. He'd been drugged- the tea, of course.

"You aren't enough, Sherlock," John said. "And I've found another source."

"No." Sherlock managed to force out the word through the imposing barrier of oblivion.

"I said I was sorry," John whispered.

Sherlock wondered if those really were tears sparkling in John's eyes, or if it was just the blurriness of the drug as it continued to overtake him.

The doctor stood up, bent and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and walked out the door, taking his coat and his pistol.

And Sherlock fell unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N- I know in some of my previous tales, Sebby's a bit of an idiot. Not in this one! He's a little bit more like he is in the actual stories. This is actually set in Season Three, but Mary never existed. Sarah's still around. And yes, there are OCs. Yay!**

"Yeah, I know it's short notice," John said with a sigh, switching his phone to the other ear. "Please, Sarah?"

"Sherlock's getting on your nerves?" Sarah chuckled, but over the phone it sounded like static.

John glanced quickly around the dark street. "Something like that."

"Something like that, huh?" Another chuckle. "Sure, hon. Come on over."

John sighed with relief. "Thanks. Love you." He hung up and quickly thrust his phone into his pocket, feeling it scrape against his gun. A pang of guilt hit him, but he pushed it off and kept walking.

He refused to take a taxi, and as the streets passed he let himself fall back into his old mindset, the one he'd been hiding for years. With each step, he let go of the lies he'd built up, let his walls come crashing down. It felt wonderful.

A knock on a door, a welcoming hug, and he was safe. For now.

"Would you like something to eat?" asked Sarah, smiling brightly.

John hung his coat on a hook by the door. "No thanks. It's a bit late for me, I think. What is the time, actually?"

"Nearly ten," answered Sarah. "What's the problem with Sherlock?"

"He's just being an asshole, as usual," lied John automatically. "I couldn't take it anymore."

Sarah laughed and ruffled his hair. "Must get tiring, huh?"

John nodded fervently. "It's nice to get a break."

"Well, now that you're here, want some wine?" Sarah asked.

"That sounds lovely, but I have to make a few calls first," John said. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

John stood up and left the room, remembered he'd left his phone in his coat pocket, walked back with a quick "Sorry," fetched it, and went out of the room once more.

He looked at the phone for several moments, feeling what could have been fear if he'd been that type of person. Finally, he tapped in a number. "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Jane Smith," said the voice. It was definitely weathered, but very strong, a woman's voice. "I think you have the wrong number."

John bit back a smile. "I don't think so, Imogene."

"John?"

"Yeah," John said. "It's been forever."

"Agreed." The woman on the other end, Imogene Williams, sounded pleasantly surprised. "What's the occasion?"

John licked his lips nervously, wondering how she'd take what he was about to say. Well, better just get it over with. "I'm getting the team back together. I got a call a few days ago, and… you know. By the way, I like the cover-up name."

"Thanks," murmured Imogene. "So, the team. John, I'm almost sixty."

"Yeah," John said. "I really don't see the problem."

Imogene chuckled. "You know what? I don't either. I've always loved a good kickass older woman in stories."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" John thought it was too good to hope for.

"If you think I'm saying yes, then yes," Imogene said. "How could I turn something like this down, you idiot?"

John smiled. "I've no idea. There's the old Imogene, calling names."

"One problem, John," said Imogene, all the laughter gone from her voice. "Sinead is dead."

John's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"She had a few enemies." Imogene's voice was quiet. "As if you don't."

"I do, we all do, or did," said John, clearing his throat. "Mine just haven't caught up with me yet."

"Let's pray they don't, John," said Imogene. "At least till this job is done."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N- I love Ireland, and I hope y'all do too! And tell me if you're getting an idea of what John's 'team' did!**

"Well. Isn't this strange." John forced a smiled.

Imogene forced one back. She was a handsome woman, despite her age. She had chin length platinum blonde hair that fell straight and large-ish blue eyes with well done makeup. Her clothes, well ironed, were more suited for a law office than for the little coffee shop the two were seated in. She stood about three of four inches taller than John without heels, and with the ones she sported now she was very nearly six feet. Impressive, all around. "Very," she returned. "When did you last use a gun?"

"Not long ago," John replied quickly.

"Occasion?"

"Someone was trying to hurt Sherlock. I killed him. I killed all of them."

"Hm," Imogene mused.

"Sinead's really gone, huh?" John commented.

"Indeed," murmured Imogene. "Shall you find the replacement, or shall I?"

John glanced around before leaning closer, not wanting to be too loud and get someone killed. "There's this girl, one of Sherlock's homeless network. Someone tried to mug her friend and she shot him without blinking."

"Perfect," whispered Imogene.

John nodded. "I thought so too."

"Who is Sherlock, anyways?" asked Imogene. "Wait- don't tell me."

John didn't tell her, and he sighed because he thought he knew what was coming.

"Has my John, my cute short jumper-wearing little John fallen in love?" Imogene's eyes were wide and she was smiling from ear to ear.

Lo and behold. John _had_ known what was coming. "No, it's really not like that."

"Oh. What is it like?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. He solves crimes, I tag along, he's brilliant, I'm a curmudgeon, he's spontaneous, I'm loyal, he plays with death, I save his arse." He sighed. "He trusts me, I betray him."

"I'm sorry it's not working out for you," said Imogene, laying a hand on the doctor's – the traitor's – across the table.

"I'm not in love," John said firmly. "And you know what? I'm sick of people saying that, because if I was in love, I wouldn't go and- and leave him in the dark for all these years, I wouldn't betray him like I did. God, I drugged him, Imogene! All that trust we had in each other is gone! God." John looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "God."

Imogene slowly nodded. Everything was so clear to her. She'd worked with John for years in the past, and she knew how he worked. She could tell that, despite his protests, he was in love, and he'd done something wrong and would do all he could to fix it. "You know, John? Let's go find your homeless girl now. Okay?"

"Yeah," John said, the word sounding clipped and military. Empty.

They left the coffee shop and John led the way into the darker and more dangerous parts of the city. There, in a backstreet alley, he found who they were looking for.

The girl's skin was as pale as death, and her eyes also seemed colorless if not for the slightest hint of green and a black outline of makeup. And her hair- it was snow white, even whiter than snow. The very tips of it were dyed bright turquoise. She was very small, even smaller than John. She stood about five one, and she was scrawny, too. She was wearing army pants tucked into knee-high heels and a red and white striped shirt saying 'La Vie Boheme' in bold black letters. Wrapped around her small shoulders was a too-long dark leather trench coat. She let out a breath, shivering in the cold November air.

John took a moment wondering about the hair and how it was white if it wasn't dyed, which he could tell it wasn't. Then it hit him- this girl, the new Sinead, was albino.

Imogene cleared her throat. "Hello? What's your name, girl?"

The girl looked up. "Ireland. Ireland Pace. Who are you?"

Imogene pursed her lips, ignoring the question. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Ireland said. "If you guys are some sort of cops, I'm clean. You can check me."

"We're not cops," John said. "Don't panic."

Ireland snorted. "I wasn't panicking, blondie."

"And is it true that you shot a man?" Imogene asked. "To death?"

Ireland shuffled her feet. "Yes. It's true." She looked up, a fire in her pallid eyes. "He hit my girlfriend; he tried to take her messenger bag. Yeah, I killed him. I wouldn't have murdered someone usually, but I had a gun in my hand and I love her."

Imogene smiled, looking at John.

'_Someone was trying to hurt Sherlock. I killed him. I killed all of them.'_

The doctor looked away, not meeting the gaze of the older woman. "Ireland, you've got talent, and we need you. What do you say?"

Ireland grinned. "Hell, yeah."


End file.
